LITMIR.BIZ

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the rain. Lightning flashed in the blackening sky, and by the time he heard the rumble of thunder, he was in the house, reaching for the snifter of brandy.

      The storm passed quickly on its march from the mainland to the sea. Now the air was fresh and the pastel pinks of the sunset had deepened to a rich ocher. Preston sat on the porch, his clothes damp and his skin cold, staring out at the purpling sky while the brandy did its work. Usually Mama June sat rocking beside him in a companionable silence. He felt her absence deeply.

      “At least you’re here, aren’t you, boy?” he said, reaching down to pat the black Labrador retriever curled at his feet. Blackjack, who had sneaked back onto the porch the moment Mama June left, raised his dark, melting eyes and gazed at Preston with devotion while his tail thumped with affection. “Good ol’ dog.”

      With a heavy sigh he turned his gaze back to the westward slide of the sun. In the years past, he used to relish these waning hours of the day, just rocking and watching the sun set over Sweetgrass, knowing that, at least for one more day, he’d kept the Blakely heritage intact. The plantation once consisted of 1300 acres, yet over the span of three hundred years, one thousand of those acres were sold off. He’d always felt it was his duty as the last remaining Blakely male to try to hold on to what was left so that a Blakely would always have a place to call home. Thinking about this used to bring him a bone-deep satisfaction.

      Tonight, he felt no satisfaction in anything. Tonight, he felt that all his efforts had been in vain.

      Mama June’s words had cut him to the quick. They’d extinguished the flicker of hope he’d harbored deep in his heart that someday, in the not-too-distant future, his prodigal son would return. Though he’d told no one, night after night he’d see that dream in the hallucinatory hues of the sunsets. In that dream he would be just like that father in the Bible he’d read about. He’d see his son coming up the road and go running out of the house to greet him with outstretched arms. He’d call for a feast to be held, for music to be played, for riches to be shared—all to celebrate his beloved son’s return home after years of fruitless wandering. In his dream he would smile at Mama June and quote, “My son was lost but now is found.”

      Preston’s frown deepened. Tonight he couldn’t see his dream in the shadows of the sunset. His rays of hope had extinguished along with the sinking sun, and all that was left was this cold, dark silence. He felt as if he were already dead and put in the earth. Mama June’s words came back to him: Will our children weep when we’re gone?

      They would not, he concluded bitterly. Then he downed his drink.

      Gripping the sides of the chair, he pulled himself out, tottering as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Too much brandy, he thought as he plodded across the porch. Inside, the warmth of the house enveloped him. Glancing up at the tall clock, he realized with surprise that he’d been sitting out on the porch for several hours. It was no wonder he was chilled to the bone. He moved closer to the staircase and cocked his ear, straining to hear sounds from Mama June’s bedroom. All was quiet. She must have fallen asleep, he thought, resigned to the fact that he would not likely be getting a hot meal for dinner this night.

      Truth was, he wasn’t hungry, anyway. All that fighting and drinking made his gut feel off. Besides, he was feeling too restless to eat. He never could settle down after a quarrel with Mama June. Couldn’t rest until they’d made peace. That woman had his soul in her hands and he wondered if she even knew it. Some days, it seemed that she hardly even knew he was here.

      He felt his aloneness acutely tonight. It was thrumming in his brain with a pulselike rhythm. He removed his slicker, letting it lie on the back of a chair, and wandered restlessly. His damp feet dragged and his blurry eyes barely took in the rooms as he meandered. His mind was fixed on Mama June’s words.

      I despise this land!

      Could she have really meant that?

      From the day I first stepped foot on it, all this land ever brought me was utter and complete heartbreak.

      For him, the day Mary June Clark first stepped her tiny foot on Sweetgrass land was forever etched in his mind. His boyish heart had never known such infatuation, and later, much later, that youthful adoration had matured into a man’s utter and complete devotion.

      He’d never heard her speak so plainly. She usually kept strong opinions to herself, never wanting to make another person feel uncomfortable. But those words…it was as if they had all bubbled up from some deep, dank well. Very deep, he thought with a grimace. What was it that Faulkner had said? The past is never dead. It isn’t even past. It nearly broke his heart to think that his life’s efforts had been for naught. No man could bear that.

      During one circuit of the house he poured himself another drink. After another, he headed toward the small mahogany desk in the foyer and dug out Mama June’s blue address book. His eyes struggled with the letters and he fumbled for his reading glasses, an indignity of old age to which he’d never become reconciled. After a brief search through her feathery script, he picked up the phone and dialed the number in Montana.

      His heart beat hard in his chest as he waited. Steadying himself against the wall, he listened to the phone ring once, twice, then two more times. At last he heard a click and the dreaded pause of a machine.

      Hi. This is Morgan. I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a brief message and I’ll call you back.

      Preston was unprepared for the impact of his son’s voice after so many years of silence. He fumbled with the phone cord a moment, his tongue feeling unusually thick in his mouth. When the beep sounded he skipped a beat, then blurted, “Uh, Morgan, it’s your dad. I, uh…” Preston felt a sudden confusion and struggled to put his thoughts to words. He gripped the phone tight while his heart pounded. “I called to…to talk to you. Anyway, I—” This was going badly. He had to end it. “Well, goodbye, son.”

      Preston’s hands shook as he hung up the phone. He leaned against the desk, panting as if he’d just plowed the back forty. Damn, he was even sweating! What bad luck that on his first call in years he got some damned answering machine.

      The sadness in his heart weighed heavily in his chest. He couldn’t catch his breath and he felt as weak as a woman, barely able to bear his own weight. He pushed back from the desk, straightening, then felt again a surge of light-headedness, as if he might pass out. He staggered out to the porch, determined to let a few deep breaths of the cool ocean air balance him.

      At the creak of the door Blackjack leapt from the cushioned settee and came trotting to his side, tail wagging.

      “Back, boy,” he mumbled, stumbling past him.

      The dog whined and pressed his muzzle persistently against his leg.

      “Back!” he cried, swinging his arm. He lost his balance and reached out in a panic, searching for something—anything—to hold on to. His eyesight went blurry, and with frightening suddenness, he was teetering in the darkness. The thrumming in his head became a brutal pounding, building in crescendo, louder and louder. He was going down. His arms reached out toward the house as he hit the floor and it felt as if the lightning struck in his brain this time, jolting him, seizing his muscles. Everything went white with blinding pain.

      “Mary Ju—”

      The white faded to black. Then all was still.

      2

      Sweetgrass (Muhlenbergia filipes) is an indigenous, long stemmed plant that grows in tufts along the coastal dunes from North Carolina to Texas. This native plant is fast disappearing from the landscape due to urbanization and development of coastal islands and marshland.

      THE ENGINE OF THE PICKUP truck churned loudly as it idled before the ornate black wrought-iron gates. Atop the gate, fashioned in the same elaborate scroll, a single word was forged: Sweetgrass. The truck vibrated with the idling engine, but that was not the cause of the quake in Morgan Blakely’s heart.

      The truck door squeaked on its hinges as he pushed it open. A breeze of sweet-smelling air rushed into the stale compartment,

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